


Once Upon A Time

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Backstory, Coming of Age, Complicated Relationships, F/F, Fairy Tale Elements, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Grief/Mourning, Kissing, Lesbian Roberta Meserole, Nostalgia, Power Dynamics, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 12:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18521227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Roberta Meserole reminisces on a life lived, after her nephew takes off on the Grand Sneer, certain she will now be alone. She is proved quite wrong.





	Once Upon A Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Macdicilla](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdicilla/gifts).



Bobbi sat back in the armchair in the lounge, listening to the quiet crackle of the fire beside her, and scarcely feeling its warmth. Tuppence, a fat, round-bellied tabby, was purring merrily in her lap, and she absently stroked his back, her knuckles drawing over the fur and feeling the patches in it, because Tuppence was old, and had had his fair share of fights with cuts deep enough to leave the fur not growing back.

The house oughtn’t seem entirely silent.

After all, Havelock hasn’t actually lived in this house for the whole of the time since his father was still alive, since Bobbi came for him when Vincenzo died… _She_ lived in it, alone, and he only came here during his holidays, or occasionally broke in through a window[1] and slept here when he was lying low after some prank at the Guild, or when one of the other boys was really getting on his nerves.

It wasn’t as if he was consistently in the house with him, making noise and clatter. Most of the time, it was just her and the cats, and _yet_ —

How empty it felt, knowing he was out of the city, now.

How empty _she_ felt.

She’d never wanted to be a mother.

That had been the path laid out for her, and it had been stifling, _stifling_. She still recalled the sensation of it, lying awake night after night in her bed at the Quirm College for Young Ladies, at seventeen years old, knowing, _knowing_ , that once she left, Mother and Father would want her married, want her married off to some unbearable Quirmian Lord, ten or twenty years older than her, some ugly fellow who might bring more richesse to the Vetinari coffers, that they might make some important business connection through the process. Then, she would have children of her own, carry on some other family’s line, perhaps bestow wisdom upon the Vetinari children of the future…

This was the point of having daughters, after all, wasn’t it?

She had dodged it, thus far, avoided meeting eligible gentlemen by insisting that she wanted to finish her schooling, first, but as soon as she graduated, she knew there’d be no deterring her parents, and they quarrelled that Hogswatch holiday. She’d stormed out, had taken her cases and gotten the boat to Limbardi, returning to school in Quirm City a few days early…

Vincenzo had been so upset, she remembered. He had written her such letters, begging her only to do what made her happy, not to listen to their parents, and to be safe, and remember how much he loved her. He’d only been eleven or twelve, and he’d had no sense of grammar or spelling at all – he’d never really learned to – but there had been such desperate, fervent love on every page of looping handwriting, and she’d sobbed her heart out the night that it came.

She didn’t want to leave him with their parents.

He did better than she did, that much was true: he enjoyed what he could glean of their father’s business (and unlike Bobbi, had been permitted to explore it, to learn about it), and he was charismatic and charming, clever. He would be an excellent young Lord, when he came of age, but Bobbi—

She _cared_ about him. She didn’t want him to be alone, and yet, he’d be alone anyway, wouldn’t he, if she was married off to some ugly, stupid man?

She had never liked men, she didn’t think. She’d tried to convince herself, when she was young, but looking back… It was difficult to navigate, as a young girl, when everyone was so _convinced_ of it, that there was a man for every girl, that if you just waited, you would engage with one, and yet visions of princes never seemed to quite resonate with her. The fairy tale imagery rang hollow, and then fell flat.

Once, at fifteen, she woke from some dewy, lazy dream of an Octeday lie-in, and been struck with the fleeting, dreamy recollection of a warrior taking off a shining, silver helm, and revealing cascades of beautiful, blonde hair, pink lips, sparkling eyes… She’d been struck wide awake by it, had lay gasping in her bed before scrambling from beneath the sheets, that she might take a bath.

There’d been nothing salacious in the thought. It hadn’t been even remotely sexual, and yet she had felt awash with hot and burning shame, had felt disgusted with herself, had taken a long swim in the lake and done a length of the thing before turning back.

One of the other girls, a Quirmian girl, Coralie, she’d been of the same lilt, and she remembered that year’s whirlwind romance in a series of snapshots, fleeting memories that all blended together, as if they seemed to be one memory. Had she even gone to any classes at all that year? Had she written even a single essay, quarrelled with a single tutor, ridden any horses, read any books? She hardly recalled. That had been the year of Coralie, Coralie and Bobbi sitting side-by-side, their hips brushing against one another; the two of them practising dances together and coming a little too closely together; watching Coralie dive into the lake and swim, her hair a beautiful, burnished red streaming behind her in the water… And diving into the water to follow her, too, catching her legs and making her squeal.

They used to lie in bed together.

She remembered that. They hadn’t ever touched one another, when they’d been at school, because the first time they’d touched one another hadn’t been until after they’d left, but they used to lie together in Bobbi’s bed, beneath the covers, leave chaste kisses on one another’s cheeks and brows and noses.

Never the lips, not until—

And hadn’t that been a night?

Were Bobbi an author, she could pen a thousand tawdry novels out of that night alone. The sky had been thick with black cloud, the wind roaring, and the rain had thundered down against the school roofs, rushing in waves down the guttering and against the heads of the gargoyles, and it had seemed to her that the world was painted in shades of grey as she climbed the roof to Coralie’s window, her oil cloak on over her trousers and blouse and her boots, a horse waiting for them in the stables, Bobbi’s bags ready.

“I’ll take you away with me,” Bobbi had said to her, cupping her cheek as she leaned out of the window… What colour had her eyes been? She no longer remembered, but she remembered the way Coralie’s face had looked, utterly enchanted, entranced.

 _Bobbi_ had been the knight, in that moment, Coralie’s _hero_ , her _heroine_ , and she had whisked her away, but before that, she had drawn Coralie close to her and _kissed_ her. Kissed her on the mouth, Coralie’s lips plump beneath her own, and if she closed her eyes she was still there, her fingers wound in that beautiful hair, Coralie’s tongue against her own, the rain pattering and rushing down her hood, down the cape of her cloak.

Two years, they’d been on the run together. Just two years, and she’d scarcely been a girl, and yet what a change they had made, what an _effect_ they’d had on her. Even now— Two years, from Quirm City to Pseudopolis, and then to Ankh-Morpork, and then up through the Ramtops and abroad yet further.

She’d sent so many letters back to Vincenzo, and never had he been able to write her back, she knew, and it _ached_ , but it was enough to write to him, she hoped, enough to tell him how much she loved him. She would describe everything she saw, what she enjoyed, what _he_ would like…

Her little brother.

But he’d told her to, hadn’t he? To run away?

And so she had.

In retrospect, it had been nothing, her and Coralie. They hadn’t really had that much in common, except that the both of them preferred the company of women to men. Coralie was a vapid girl: she liked music and she liked literature, but her interest in politics, in philosophy, in the world and other people, was next to nothing. Bobbi was certain she must have disappointed Coralie more and more too, the longer they spent together: too boring and bookish, too prone to moments of dark contemplation, too angry at the world, where Coralie was so carefree.

It had been on the road in Überwald, after they’d left Bonk behind them, that the two of them had finally parted ways. Bobbi hadn’t cried. They had been staying in an inn, and she had insisted Coralie not go alone, but she had contacted a noblewoman in Bonk, who had said she would help send her home to Quirm, that she would contact her parents.

Bobbi had lain in her bed, and the tavern mistress had taken pity on her, given her a job. It had been a brothel, she’d realised then, not merely a tavern, although she’d never taken up any of that work for herself. She’d learned a lot about men, in those few years in Überwald, but not _that_ much. She’d worked behind the bar, and – being as, for all her father’s conservative sensibilities, he had been keen to show her precisely how to protect her virtue with a sword or her fists, if necessary – acted as muscle.

She’d loved those years.

She’d liked Überwald, liked the tavern, loved Madam Luciana, and it was then that people had first started calling _her_ Madam… She’d sent too many messages home to Vincenzo, though. By the time that her parents sent people looking for her, Vincenzo would have been… What? Seventeen? Almost a man himself. They’d written one another, for those years…

He’d told her, later, how much he regretted it, that they’d found his stash of letters, and used them to track her down. He’d wanted to send word, but hadn’t been able to, they’d told the messengers not to take any post from him…

So she’d left.

It had felt good, in some ways, to travel again, and she truly had been her own woman, then. Twenty-five years old, with _experience_ : she was lethal in a fight and even more dangerous in a conversation, although not as much as she’d learn to be later on, and when she’d up in Genua, and met Giselle Meserole…

There was a knock on the door, and Bobbi looked up from her reverie, her fingers settling down on Tuppence’s back.

For one sad, lonely moment, she desperately hoped it was Havelock, knocking on her door, but that would be terrible. For one, to even consider entering Roberta’s home through a traditional doorway, he’d have to be ill or under threat, but… There was a reason he had needed to go off on his Grand Sneer. With Snapcase so eager to thin out the ranks of young Assassins, he _needed_ to be away from Ankh-Morpork.

She heard the door click open, heard Graham, her butler, speak quietly to the individual at the door, and then she heard the steps in the hall.

“Young Miss Palm to see you, my lady,” Graham said. “Shall I tell her you are not fit to take visitors?” He said this with some quiet sympathy, and she thought about it for just a moment before she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “Let her in.”

She didn’t rise from her seat as Rosie came in, and she got a good look at her, taking in the dress she was wearing. It was a nice one, summery, and it did no small favour for her figure, tightly hugging her rounded hips and accentuating the natural, thickly curved hourglass figure of her body. She looked healthier, in the past little while, since putting on a little weight, having more regular income. Life wasn’t perfect, but Rosemary Palm was making a name for herself, no matter how much people brushed aside her ambition. She hadn’t spoken much to the girl, in the past year or so, except to see her in the street, and Rosie was certainly _polite_ , was often overeager to be in Madam’s presence, but that was hardly surprise.

Any good working girl saw a meal ticket when there was one walking about, but unfortunately for Rosie, Bobbi was not usually willing to take the bait. She brought a woman home, now and then, but it was ordinarily some noblewoman… Try as Bobbi might to rise above petty things, there was nothing quite so satisfying as bringing a lady (or a duchess, or a countess) home and showing her _precisely_ what her husband had never bothered to give her.

“Rosemary,” Bobbi said, and she gestured to the other chair. “Please, sit with me. Would you like some wine?”

“No, thank you,” Rosie said, but she took her seat, looking at Bobbi seriously, and she awkwardly held up the basket in her lap. “Sandra made some scones, too many. I thought you might like a few of them.”

“Very kind of you,” Bobbi said quietly, with a warm smile. “And is that _all_ you came to offer me?”

“S’my day off,” Rosie said slowly.

“Is it?” Bobbi asked, arching one eyebrow.

“I thought—” Rosie looked down at her knees. Her stockings had a few ladders, Bobbi noticed. “I just thought you might be a bit upset. I saw the posh lads go off on their Grand Sneer today. Your nephew’s that Vetinari, isn’t he?”

“That’s right,” Bobbi said, with a small smile, gently scratching Tuppence’s ears. Why had she let the girl in? Merely because she was lonely? Because the house was quiet, and she wanted noise in it? Because…? “I’ll miss him.”

For a long moment, there was quiet. Rosie seemed uncharacteristically nervous and uncertain, and she kept looking about the room, glancing at the tall shelves, the many books, the art on the walls, and then she leaned forward, her knees pressed together, her whole body shifting to touch against the side of the armchair, that she might be as close to Bobbi as possible without actually leaving the chair.

Bobbi watched the shift in her throat as she swallowed.

Rosie had blond hair. Pink lips. Dark eyes. She was a handsome girl, more handsome than pretty… She’d make a good knight, Bobbi thought. The idea of Rosie in armour was an arresting thought indeed, to be distantly appreciated.

“Do you miss your husband?” Rosie asked. Small talk. It was a curious thing, indeed. She knew that the girl was a vibrant one, that she would go far: ambitious and clever, bright-eyed and so _caring_. Not selfish, but _pragmatic_ : a good combination. And yet, _small talk_ … Was she going to ask for money? It seemed unlikely. Rosie knew enough about Bobbi to be plain about it from the start, to phrase it as an _investment_ , not to ask to borrow money… So, no. Not money. Help, perhaps, with some city official? But no, she knew that that was beyond Bobbi’s power… There was always sex, of course, but that seemed unlikely: Rosie took up with all sorts of women, when she wasn’t working, and Bobbi had never noticed her tend especially to women of… _Ahem_.

Women of years.

“No,” Bobbi said.

“Oh,” Rosie murmured. “He was a bad man, then?”

“No,” Bobbi said mildly. “I never had a husband.”

“But— But your Havelock, his name’s Vetinari, and it was his father that was your brother, right? Your name would be Vetinari.”

“It was,” Bobbi said, with a small shrug. “Once upon a time. How, pray, did you come into all this information about my nephew?”

“Asked about,” Rosie said.

“Seduced his teachers, you mean?” Bobbi asked teasingly, and Rosie smiled, but it was a fleeting little smile, uncertain. Tension tightened between them, like a bowstring. Again, Rosie leaned forward, and Bobbi saw in her periphery the way her bosom _heaved_ in the tight lacing of her dress. If she _was_ here for sex, the girl was certainly doing her level best to seduce with looks alone, but Bobbi had always thought her capable of greater subtlety than that. “I never married.”

“Then why’d you change your name?” Rosie asked.

“Why don’t you tell me why you’ve come here, first?” Bobbi asked. “Are you worried about something? Do you need help?”

“No,” Rosie said. “But I thought… I thought, you know, if you’d sent your nephew off, on the Grand Sneer, because of Snapcase, that you might go too.”

“I won’t yet,” Bobbi murmured. “But I will, perhaps in a year.”

“That’s why I’m here,” Rosie said. “Because—” She swallowed, and she leaned forward, and said, “A lot of girls, like me, they marry rich, you know. And they… They let some man take them away, because they’re attractive enough to be worth taking, but I didn’t want to, because I wanted other things. I wanted my own things, not a man’s that he let me use because I was his wife. You understand?”

“I do,” Bobbi said.

“And I wanted _women_ ,” Rosie said. “I didn’t want to be reliant on a man, and I didn’t want men to be running my life, when women are better. Women are _beautiful_ , and they’re competent, and men aren’t usually either.”

“I can’t disagree.”

“And I don’t want you to think I’m here to ask to be your bedwarmer, because I _still_ want my own things, right? I’m my own woman, and one day, there’s going to be a Guild of Seamstresses, and I’m going to be the head of it.”

“I don’t doubt you.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“My dear, when a young lady enters one’s home with scones and begins blurting out her ambitions, one need not make one’s own fun.” Rosie frowned at her, and Bobbi leaned forward, reaching out, touching her chin. Rosie didn’t flinch away, and Bobbi felt the soft skin of her cheek, the warmth of it. “You’re quite right, of course. We should want our own possessions; women _are_ beautiful; one day, I have no doubt you shall be Rosemary Palm, Guild Head. But what of all that, my dear?”

“I kept swallowing my tongue, not coming to speak with you, because I knew you’d think I just wanted to warm your bed,” Rosie said. “And that I wanted your… your money, and that, and I don’t. But you’re so… I want to be more like you.”

“Oh, you don’t,” Bobbi said softly, shaking her head. “You don’t.”

“I _do_ ,” Rosie said, and she stood to her feet, setting the basket aside. She grabbed Tuppence beneath the arms, ignoring the chirruping complaint he uttered as she dropped him into her seat, and made a seat of Bobbi’s lap instead. She _had_ put on weight, Bobbi thought, and she was glad of it – the girl hadn’t been _skinny_ , before, but she’d been lean, wiry, like a stray cat, nothing more than the crucial muscle… Now, she was more plump. _Healthier_. This had the added benefit, of course, of avoiding a bony arse, and Bobbi let her hand settle on the other woman’s lower back, her fingers playing over her hip. “And I want…”

Rosie’s hand settled on Bobbi’s breast, over the silken fabric of her robe, her evening clothes. Her palm was directly over Bobbi’s heart, and in her eyes, she saw the earnest, _eager_ look… Said heart was beating faster than Bobbi would like. Had she ever been romanced like this? With such fairy tale intensity? She had always been the _pursuer_ , but this—

Her skin felt hot, and she was grateful for naturally unblushing cheeks.

“Oh, my _dear_ girl,” Bobbi said, with a rich little laugh that seemed to make Rosie concentrate to keep from squirming. “Do _trust_ me when I tell you that you do _not_ want that. You hardly know me, but for the fact that I am older than you, and have a gravitas you should like to foster in yourself.”

“Let me know you, then,” Rosie said stubbornly. “Put it off for a _year_ , I did, thinking that there was all the time in the world, and thinking that you’d not look at me seriously, if I was still… Because I’m making more money, now, I’m doing better, so you know it’s not that I _need_ your money, because I don’t, and I don’t want it. And I don’t want you to go anywhere.”

“What fantasies of me you must have,” Bobbi murmured. “What silly fairy tales your head must be fille—”

Rosemary kissed her. It was a clumsy thing, desperate and eager, and Bobbi caught her by her handsome jaw, drawing her back for a moment before kissing her again. She took command of it, this time, kissed her gently, drew her into it, let her mirror the movements of Bobbi’s lips, of her tongue.

Most of the seamstresses didn’t kiss on the mouth – it was no wonder she was comparatively unpractised, and yet it was… _Flattering_. This wasn’t faux clumsiness, put on to charm an unwitting mark. This was _genuine_ , earnest desire, unpractised, but full of want.

Bobbi remembered kissing Coralie through the window, rain falling around them, and she kissed Rosie all the harder, wound her hand in her knightly hair, bit her lip and heard her _gasp_ , press right up against Bobbi’s breast. Rosemary’s hand slipped below her robe, and it didn’t slide down to cup her breast, but pressed once more against her heart, beating fast…

“Why don’t I tell you?” Bobbi asked against Rosie’s mouth. “Why don’t I tell you why my name is what it is?”

“Please,” Rosie whispered. “I’d like that.”

“Such manners,” Bobbi murmured. “Why, Miss Palm, you will do ever so well as a Guild Mistress, one day.” It’s been some time since she’s had another woman in her lap, and she lets her fingers press into the plump, warm flesh of Rosie’s hips, aching to drag aside her skirts.

“Tell me,” Rosie said.

“I was… Ooh, twenty-five, and I was travelling. Avoiding the men my family had sent looking for me, because they wanted for me to come home and be a proper young lady, so I kept on travelling, until I landed in a village in Genua. A little place called Once. A lot of the Genuan villages have names like that, you see, little fairy tale names. The magic is strong there, and the world follows the lines of story…” She let her fingers drag down, over Rosie’s thigh instead, and she wondered what it must be like, undressing for men, having sex with them, giving them that experience… She’d thought about it. Certainly, over the years, she’d let men _believe_ she might allow them into her bed or beneath her skirts, but she’d never considered forcing herself to really _allow_ them in, bothered pretending they were truly so attractive. The idea sickened her. Did Rosie like men? Would it be easier, if she did, or harder? “Her name was Giselle, and she was the lady of the town. Unmarried. Last of her line. And she was very charitable and kind, but she was… With other towns, she’d put the influence in the right place. Manipulate people into doing the right thing, you know? It was incredible, the things she’d change by putting the right word in the right place.”

Rosie’s palm pressed tighter against Bobbi’s chest, and Bobbi felt her eyes flutter closed, her head tipping back against the armchair.

“She invited me to stay with her. Settled me in a guest bedroom, and seemed so _surprised_ when I came to her bedroom and crept into bed with her, when I kissed her… I don’t know that a woman had ever kissed her before. She wasn’t that much older than me, only thirty-one, but so _isolated_. So alone.”

Bobbi stared into the space before them, and she was so aware of Rosemary’s body against her own, of the other woman’s _warmth_ , her weight…

“I was there for nine years. I didn’t mean to. My parents stopped bothering sending people looking for me – I found out, later, that my father had died, and that my mother died a few years later. I began sending letters to my brother, letting him know where I was, so that he could write to me… But I just settled there, and it became so natural, to live together, to sleep in the same bed. I loved her. I’d never truly loved another woman before. I’d had casual affairs, strange partnerships, but I’d never fallen in love, not like I did with Giselle. She was… Breathtaking. So kind, so full to the brim with warmth, and yet so quick, so sharp, so _biting_. There wasn’t a book she hadn’t read. In her free time, she _knitted_ , and she did it so quickly you’d see that her fingers were an absolute blur, like it was truly that easy for her.”

Rosie was scarcely breathing.

Good, Bobbi thought. Let her hear what it’s like, when you reach for someone’s heart, like a fool.

“And then she fell ill,” Bobbi whispered. “It was awful. It took her nine months to die. She got weaker and weaker, was confined to her bed for day after die, wasting away, piece by piece. It ripped me to pieces. I thought I’d die with her, watching her get wan and shaky, watching her struggle to so much as lift one of her hands to reach for a glass of water. She had beautiful skin, a sort of deep, dark brown that was burnished with a bronze glow, the undertone, and as the time went on, the colour became dull and dead, pale, yellowed.

“She asked me to take her name. She was the last of the Meseroles, I told you, and she’d already insisted I take everything in her will, but she asked if I would take her name. She knew I didn’t like mine, and she said, _I’m sorry, Bobbi, I don’t want to leave you a widow, but…_

“And she needed water, so she stopped, coughing, and I brought some water up to her mouth. I couldn’t help crying. I said, _No, Giselle, I’d be very glad to be your widow. I just wish I could have been your wife.”_

She watched, her expression unchanging, as Rosie’s face shifted. As her brows furrowed, as she swallowed, her lips shifting, as she _blinked_ , trying to keep the wetness from showing too obviously in her lovely eyes.

“After she died, I came to Ankh-Morpork. My brother, Vincenzo, he was recently married, and I met his wife, stayed here for a few weeks before I made a new home in Pseudopolis, the _mysterious_ widow, all the way from Genua…”

Rosie kissed her again, and she was better this time, not so clumsy, but not any less eager, and she shifted her position, straddling Bobbi’s lap instead of sitting sideways. Her fingers went to the lacing of Bobbi’s bodice, rapidly moving over the front piece: yes, she was far more practised with this than she was at kissing.

“I’m sorry,” Rosie said against her lips. “That you lost her.”

“Thank you,” Bobbi murmured, and she grabbed at the curve of Rosie’s backside, feeling the way she heaved in a gasp. “To bed, I think.” It was a welcome distraction.  She wanted the distraction, she _wanted_ …

“No,” Rosie said. “Right here.”

Bobbi laughed, delivering a playful smack to Rosie’s backside and delighting in the way she yelped. “ _No_. Upstairs. I will carry you, if I have to.”

“Will you?”

“Oh, yes.”

They stood from the chair, and Bobbi turned away for a moment to open the window for the cats. And Rosie— She was taller than Bobbi, that much was true, but she didn’t expect the way Rosie’s arms _swept_ beneath her, lifting her bridal style as Bobbi let out a noise of surprise, and she looked up at Rosie’s face, her hair thrown over one shoulder, her eyes glittering, her expression smug and victorious—

Is this what Coralie saw in Bobbi, all those years ago?

Her heart was aflutter.

“Oh,” Bobbi said. She couldn’t think of anything better to say, couldn’t think of anything _at all_ , her mind a mess of fairy tale imagery and images of _Rosie,_ a  messy tapestry of emotions blistering in her chest, of delight and affection, of excitement and surprise, of fear, of grief, of loss, of _want_ —

“Bed?” Rosie asked.

“You needn’t sound quite so smug.”

“Oh, Madam,” Rosie said. “I _definitely_ need to.”

Bobbi laughed, feeling the warmth in her chest and in her cheeks, although the red glow wouldn’t show, and she let herself relax in Rosie’s arms.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

Morning light was filtering in through the gaps in the curtains, and Bobbi watched Rosie asleep beside her in the bed, her limbs sprawled out beneath the sheets, her hair a beautiful cloud spread over the pillow. Her breathing was free and easy, and she was _relaxed_ , and in that, she looked—

Beautiful.

She’d scarcely thought of anything last night, had fallen asleep so easily, with Rosie wrapped about her belly, her face pressed against Bobbi’s breast, her fingers loosely tangled in Rosie’s hair…

And now, her mind was a loud cacophony of thoughts once more, and her heart _ached_.

Where was Havelock, now?

A day of coach-travelling… Where had they stopped overnight? Somewhere in the Sto Plains, perhaps some little tavern. That Downey boy had perhaps given him trouble, or perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps he was making new friends…

Why couldn’t she stop worrying?

He was a _man_ now, and she’d been younger than he was, when she’d first stepped out on her own, and with not nearly so much training. She’d wanted to go to the Assassins’ Guild school herself, and her mother had been so furious at the very idea that she’d shouted about it for an hour…

And yet. And yet, the prickly heat of desperate worry on her skin, her heart _aching_ for the want of him. He’d be gone for over a _year_ , and that was Havelock, this was her nephew, the boy that might as well have been her _son_ —

She remembered, when he was born.

Vincenzo had been head over heels with Francesca, and she’d seen that, when she’d met them in Ankh-Morpork, the way he utterly worshiped the ground she walked on. She could scarcely move from one room to the next without him leaping on top of her, murmuring his poetry against her arms as he kissed them from wrist to shoulder, or burying his nose in her hair, or lifting her and carrying her about as she laughed and kissed him back.

She regretted, at times, how little she’d known her.

Francesca had been a beautiful girl, and Bobbi had been astonished, when she’d met her. Unlike Roberta and Vincenzo, native Tiberians proud of Tiberia, proud(ish) of Brindisi, she was the daughter of Tiberian-Morporkians, her great grandparents having come from Tiberia to Ankh-Morpork to work on their business in the mercantile fleet. She was… _astonishing_ , to look at. The Vetinaris were rather pale, albeit with an olive tint to the pallor in question: they tended toward dark hair and dark eyes, with lean men and full-figured women, with strong, long-fingered hands.

The Occhipintis, in contrast… Havelock would be meeting his cousins about the place, Bobbi knew, on the Grand Sneer, and how different they were to him, in so many ways, but so similar. Francesca had looked like many in her family: a small, petite woman with dimensions like a doll, with big, brightly green eyes that _dazzled_ , with chestnut hair that tinted gold in places with the bleach from the summer sun[2]. Havelock had barely taken after her, in looks, except for having the Occhipintis’ bright eyes, such an icy blue one felt like one might dive into the pool of it. But it was the personality that really showed through in Havelock, she mused.

Vincenzo had been… Oh, why should it still hurt, now? How many years had it been? How many years would it take?

He’d been so bright and ever full of laughter, always with a joke on his lips, always singing, throwing out his poetry, throwing out other people’s poetry, romanticising everything he came across; and Francesca, in contrast, would follow him about with a needle, ready to burst his bubble of optimism, and every time he would laugh, pick her up, swing her around, say, “Ah, _luce dei miei occhi,_ that’s why I love you!”

He said that no matter what she did. Everything she did, he used to say, was another reason to love her, and to see them together, see the way they looked at one another so utterly devotedly. They would dance for no reason at all, except that Francesca held out her hand in just the right way, or opened her stance invitingly, or that Vincenzo had a song stuck in his head.

Perhaps they should have been unbearable, but Bobbi had never felt that way, watching them together. She was delighted, to see Vincenzo so happy with his wife, and Francesca so happy with Vincenzo.

The first time Roberta had visited, after Havelock was born, Francesca had deposited her nephew in her arms, and Bobbi had felt herself smile, felt the incredible _weight_ of this little boy, and yet so small, so fragile. She’d stared down into that startlingly bright colour of his eyes, and she’d felt so strange. She’d never really liked children, had preferred cats, but Havelock hadn’t cried much, for a baby. He’d been a contemplative child, taking much more after Francesca than Vincenzo in temperament, but he’d sang, too. He had told jokes the way his mother did, deadpan, snarky, even as a young lad.

Roberta had held that wonderful baby in her arms, and laughed as Francesca and Vincenzo had danced around her, waltzing and shouting dreams into one another’s mouths, bragging about everything their son would go onto be—

Bobbi had gone back to Pseudopolis.

The next time she’d seen her brother, it had been five months later, and he’d been in his mourning clothes. No songs. No poetry. He didn’t dance. He came to Pseudopolis with Havelock in his arms, and he’d done his best to cry silently, so that the baby wouldn’t wake up.

Gods, that had been—

He’d comforted her, of course, when she came to Ankh-Morpork from Genua. She’d explained to her that she’d never been married, but that she was a widow now, and he and Francesca both had been so wonderfully kind, so understanding, had told her she could stay as long as she liked, before she’d gone to buy holdings in Pseudopolis, to build something there. She couldn’t handle Ankh-Morpork, then. She could live in Pseudopolis and still have green fields and quiet, still have _countryside_ about her, and not constantly hear the noise of the city outside her window. Funny, how quiet the city outside seemed to her now.

And yet with Vincenzo…

He’d stayed for three months, and Bobbi had been glad to have him, but she’d worried for him, the young Lord Vetinari, struggling so much as he tried to work back into his usual self, stunted, as if there was always a shadow over him.

“How can I go back to Ankh-Morpork, Bobbi? How can I go back to Scoone Avenue and see her violin, her paintings, her dresses in our wardrobe? How can I… How can I be a man again, when half of me is gone? How did you do it?”

She hadn’t known how to answer. She wished she could have. He’d always been so… _open_ with his feelings, had shouted them from the rooftops, and she was never like that, not ever, she couldn’t just… _Tell_ people her feelings. Couldn’t just throw out whatever poem best fitted her mood, or sing out what she was feeling. She’d been so silent, so uncertain, so _wooden_ , and she regretted it—

He’d been back to his old self, soon enough. Impulsive, loving, romantic.

That was what had gotten him killed, too concerned with whatever he was talking about instead of paying attention to what was going on, _idiot_ , never careful, never…  And she’d been so terrified, that Havelock’s grief would be like Vincenzo’s had been, always tearful and outright, always so… _intense_.

But he hadn’t been. He’d been quiet, thoughtful. He’d been seven years old, and from then on, he’d been _hers_. Not her son, she could hardly call him her son, but _hers_ , and in so many ways, she was a mother. She’d been so content, as his aunt, meeting him from time to time, engaging him in a game or teaching him something, and then, all at once—

“You’re allowed to miss him, you know,” Rosie said quietly. She was looking up at her, one arm loosely wrapping about Bobbi’s thigh as she leaned closer, her lips drawing over the crease of Bobbi’s thigh where it met her belly, and Bobbi reached out, taking a curl of Rosie’s hair and playing it about her finger.

He’d been eleven years old when he had turned to Bobbi and said, very quietly, “I should like to be Patrician of Ankh-Morpork one day. I believe I might help people, doing that. I would like for you to help me. I don’t know how to start.” No feelings. If Vincenzo had said something like that, he would have blurted out so many emotions, but Havelock wasn’t like that, not ever. He spoke logically, with intentions, with wants. Only occasionally, would he say something that _implied_ —

“Alright,” she’d said. And that had been that. So much planning, after that, even as they’d done other things, and always with the goal, the end intention, and that was what this was about. Later on, when he was Patrician – and she had no doubt that it was a _when_ – he would help people.

“I know,” Bobbi murmured. “I do.”

“You’re allowed to worry about him,” Rosie said, touching Bobbi’s knee.

“My dear, my thanks for your permissions, so gladly bestowed, but I—”

“ _No_ ,” Rosie said, pushing herself up and looking at her, intently. “No, Roberta—”

“Bobbi, dear.”

“Bobbi. I mean… You should feel things. The world won’t end, if you let yourself feel something. Let me— Let me make you feel something.”

“I am not what you want, dear girl.”

“Yes, you are,” Rosie said, with confidence. “And I’m what _you_ want. I’m what everybody wants, and only you get to have me.”

“I’ve always been so attracted to humility.”

“No, you haven’t,” Rosie said, grinning, and Bobbi let her thighs fall apart as Rosie crawled between them, kissing the inside of her thigh. “It’s my day off. Let’s… Let’s do something. I’ll take you to a show.”

“What manner of _show_ , pray?”

“One you’d like.”

“I’ll take _you_ to the opera.”

“Don’t have a dress for the opera.”

“I’ll buy you one.”

“Don’t want you spending money on me.”

“And if that’s what I want?” Bobbi asked, arching an eyebrow, cupping Rosie’s cheek. She watched Rosie swallow, watched the redness glow in her cheeks, over her breast… The tops of her ears flushed, too. Beautiful. “If what will _please_ me, Rosemary, is to put you in some beautiful gown, and show you off at the opera house, where you might attract a _variety_ of rich new clients?”

“I still want you,” Rosie said sharply. “Men, that’s work. _You,_ you’re not work…”

“Alright,” Bobbi whispered, feeling dizzy with it, with the intensity in Rosie’s eyes, the tight grip on her thighs as Rosie looked up at her.

“And I’ll pay you back,” Rosie said. “For the dress.”

“If you wish.”

“And I’ll buy the drinks.”

“Must you?”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Yes, dear. You should get used to it, if you’re so intent upon lingering in my presence.” Rosie grinned at her, showing all her teeth, and she dragged her teeth over the inside of Bobbi’s thigh, making Bobbi exhale, her head tipping back. “Once upon a time, you know, I was like you.”

“You should tell me the story,” Rosie said, and Bobbi opened her mouth, but then Rosie lowered her head, tongue first, and all Bobbi could let out was a moan. “ _Later_ ,” Rosie said, and went back to work as Bobbi tangled her fingers in Rosie’s hair.

 **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

The rain was pouring down in great, fat drops as they left the opera, and Bobbi laughed as Rosie pulled her down the street with her, the water rushing off their oil capes and away from their dresses, their boots clapping off the wet cobblestones and leaving cold droplets of water splashing about their ankles.

Bobbi kissed her in the rain, and although she was still thinking about Havelock, still worrying, still _aching_ —

This was something, too.

Rosie was…

“Once upon a time,” Rosie murmured against her mouth, “there was a rich woman, and she took a girl home, and _utterly_ ruined her.”

“Really?” Bobbi replied. “I’ve always liked stories like that. I heard one about a rich woman who _didn’t_ take a girl home.”

“No?”

“No. She had her in an alleyway.” She shoved Rosemary back against a wall, shadowed off the main street, beginning to gather up her skirts, and she delighted in the way Rosie heaved in a gasp and laughed, the rain rushing down over her breast and soaking into her clothes. She’d be able to dry the dress out, later, but for now, for now—

“ _Agh_ ,” Rosie moaned, tipping her head back and grinding her hips down against Bobbi’s hand. “I like this story better.” Bobbi thought of herself, alone, the night previous, staring into the crackling fire with naught to distract her whatsoever.

“Yes,” she said lightly. “I do too.” And when Bobbi kissed her on the mouth, Rosie kissed her like a thunderstorm.

 

[1] Havelock was, he informed her, capable of using his housekey, but said it didn’t offer the useful practice that breaking and entering did.

[2] Not to mention, of course, the lemon juice she’d comb into her hair, just like Bobbi had done when she was a young girl, but every summer, it brought her such delight.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up [on Dreamwidth](https://dictionarywrites.dreamwidth.org/2287.html). You can send requests [on Tumblr](http://patricianandclerk.tumblr.com/ask), too. Requests always open.
> 
> Please, please remember to comment and let me know what you think!


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